


we're sick like animals, we play pretend

by b_o_i



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Choking, Dark Shiro (Voltron), Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:16:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10604322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_o_i/pseuds/b_o_i
Summary: “Shiro?” He asks again, frantically, opens his eyes makes direct eye contact with the person above him and knows—it’s not Shiro. This…thing looks exactly like him, but it’s not him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on impulse in the span of like an hour im sorry for any errors this is so bad?? kill me
> 
> pls do read the tags tho know what ur getting into

Keith falls asleep warm. He falls asleep with the feeling of Shiro’s arm draped across his chest, comfortably tired and sated.

He wakes up cold. He wakes up to the feeling of someone on top of him. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and sees the blurry figure of shiro above him.

“Shiro?” He asks sleepily, shifting as a hand trails up his neck, another up under his shirt, nails dragging lightly against his skin. “Mm, cut it out,” he murmurs, trying to shift away.

He’s only vaguely concerned when he’s pulled back onto his back, one hand curling loosely around his hip. There’s a hot mouth against his neck, a hand crawling up his shirt again, scraping lightly against a nipple, making him jolt.

“Shiro, I’m _tired_ ,” he whines, and frowns a little when he gets an answering chuckle in returning, nothing like he’s ever heard from Shiro before.

He’s vaguely wondering what time it is when he feels the hand curl around his neck again and then tighten. He’s suddenly a lot more awake.

“Shiro?” He asks again, frantically, opens his eyes makes direct eye contact with the person above him and knows—it’s not Shiro.

Shiro’s eyes hold so much, compassion and kindness and a world of memory. These eyes are empty. Hungry. This… _thing_ looks exactly like him, but it’s not him.

“What the fuck–?” Is all he gets out before he’s choking, clawing at the hand–the strong strong prosthetic fuck, “Shiro, stop–”

“Not Shiro,” Not Shiro says, and Keith would laugh at the obvious if he wasn’t getting dizzy from lack of oxygen.

“Please,” he chokes, and the thing above him smiles.

“That’s more like it,” he says, and then the pressure is gone and he can breathe again. He tries to roll onto his side, but Not Shiro grips his hips to hold him in place.

Keith tries to punch at him weakly, but he’s still reeling, and so Not Shiro grabs his wrist and pins it easily above his head.

“Who,” he gasps, “who the fuck are you?”

The things in Shiro’s body laughs a little—more like a giggle, a low sound he’s only ever heard against his neck with two of Shiro’s fingers deep inside him.

“I’m the side of Shiro he doesn’t want you to see.” He laughs at Keith’s bewildered expression, “I’m the _Champion,_ the part of himself he tried to bury.”

“What the fuck do you want?” He asks breathlessly.

“God, the mouth on you,” he says instead of answering, dragging a finger across Keith’s bottom lip. Keith jerks away.

“Get off me,” he snarls, and Not Shiro just laughs again.

“What,” he complains, fingers dragging loosely through Keith’s hair, “you’ll let _Shiro_ stick his fingers in your mouth but not _me_?”

“What the fuck do you want?” He asks again.

Not Shiro shrugs, “I wanna get a taste of what Shiro gets—it’s not fair that he gets to fuck you all the time and I don’t y'know? I’m the one that kept him alive in that arena for a year, I think I deserve something for that.”

“Fuck you,” Keith snarls, pulling at the hand around his wrist, “you don’t deserve shit.”

Not Shiro’s smile drops for a moment, empty eyes darkening, before his mouth twists into an actual fucking smirk.

“You’re feisty—I like that. I can see why Shiro likes you so much.”

“Fucking creep,” he spits, and the slap to the face leaves him reeling.

_“Ow,”_ Keith gasps, “ _fuck_ you.”

“If you want me to,” Not Shiro snarls, and then Keith’s other hand is being shoved above his head.

Keith knees the asshole between the legs and not Shiro growls, wraps both hands around Keith’s neck and _squeezes._

“Say you’re sorry,” he snarls. Keith glares through the haze filling his vision, “I can still fuck you if you pass out, I don’t really care. You want me to do that?”

Keith squeezes his eyes shut because he’s never heard shiro talk like this and it makes something inside him hurt. He shakes his head weakly.

“Then apologize.”

“S-Sorry,” he gasps, “I’m sorry.” And then he can breath again, gasping and shaking.

He thinks he maybe blacks out for a moment–when he comes to he feels a big hand warm on his forehand and a soft murmur of “there you go, just like that, breathe for me baby,” and Keith is so relieved he could cry because “Shiro?” He asks.

“Not quite, baby,” the term of endearment more of a cruel imitation this time. Keith still feels like he could cry, but for a different reason.

His shirt is pushed up until it’s bunched up around his torso, the Galra hand clasped tightly around his wrists.

“Shiro, wait,” he’s still vaguely breathless as not Shiro’s other thumb hooks into the waistband of his boxers.

“Not Shiro,” Not Shiro growls, “but I’ll fuck you better than he ever could.”

“Fuck you,” is all Keith can say; he won’t ask for him to stop because he doesn’t think he could take shiro refusing him.

“Maybe later, baby,” and that’s that.

Despite the fact that objectively, he knows this is Shiro’s body, knows he doesn’t ever want to hurt Shiro in any way, he struggles, if weakly. Not Shiro’s Galra hand curls loosely around his neck—a warning—and he slumps into the mattress. He’s ashamed of how afraid he is of not being able to breathe again.

Not Shiro chuckle, “So, the kitten can be trained.”

Keith scowls, “Don’t call me that.”

“Shiro gets to call you that.”

“Thought you said you weren’t Shiro,” Keith spits, and Not Shiro’s eyes darken dangerously.

“I’m not.” he agrees, “But the next time Shiro calls you kitten, holds you close and calls you baby,” he drags Keith’s boxers down unceremoniously, Galra hand coming up to grip his wrists again, “I want you to remember this,” he drags his nails up Keith’s thigh, light enough to leave marks but not break the skin, “I want you to remember _me_.” 

Keith opens his mouth to say something else, but then there’s a tongue licking into his mouth, a hand buried in his hair to hold him in place. Keith bites down, drawing blood, but Not Shiro just laughs—it _spurs him on_ , the sick fuck. He stuffs two of his human fingers into Keith’s mouth when he pulls away—Keith tries to bite down on those, too, but his thumb presses into the joint of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. 

He coughs when Not Shiro pulls his fingers out, blinking the reflexive tears that had gathered out of his eyes.

He flinches when he feels Not Shiro’s hands trailing down to trace the curve of his thighs, coming to circle his hole lightly. Keith jerks away on reflex, but the hand follows, a spit-slicked finger wriggling it’s way in.

“Tight,” Not Shiro sighs happily, and Keith’s stomach drops because–well they’ve gone as far as a few fingers up Keith’s ass, Shiro has entertained the idea of using his tongue, but. He’s never actually had a dick up his ass yet. “god, this’ll be great. He’s always wanted to fuck you for real here. There are only so many ways he can use your mouth and your thighs before he gets tired of it.”

_“Don’t,”_ Keith says without thinking, “not there, I’m—I haven’t—I’m saving—”

“Saving it for Shiro?” Not Shiro guesses, and shrugs absently, “I’m sure he’s in here somewhere, maybe he’ll be able to feel it. Either way, who cares? I’ll finally have something of yours that shiro doesn’t. And I’ll make t so good for you baby, you won’t be able to think about anything else when he’s fucking you.”

And then he’s adding a second finger, too soon, Keith’s barely gotten used to the first, and then a third, ignoring Keith’s whines and slowing down and biting a nipple instead.

“Fuck my thighs,” Keith says, this close to pleading because this isn’t how this is supposed to go, “let me suck you off or something, I’ll make it good, just please–”

“You’ll ‘make it good’?” Not Shiro scoffs, “What, are you a whore now? This’ll be good for me, either way; don’t act like you have the power here—you’re all mine tonight, baby.” 

Not Shiro crooks his fingers where they’re buried inside him, searching for that spot that’ll make him—

_“Ah!”_ Keith cries out, despite himself.

“There we go,” Not Shiro grins smugly; Keith shakes his head, trying to pull his hands out of the other’s tight grasp.

“Don’t,” he cries, choking on another moan as Not Shiro prods at his prostate again and again, “stop, don’t— _god_ ,” 

It feels so good, is the thing. It has blood rushing to his groin and his back arching against his will. He almost fucking whine when he suddenly yanks his fingers out.

His wrists are released, but only so Not Shiro can grip the back of his knees where thigh meets joint, pushing his knees to his chest—practically folding him in half. Baring him, exposing him—Keith cheeks burn in humiliation. He tries to jerk away, but the grip just tightens, the claws on his Galra hand this close to breaking the skin. 

“You ready to get fucked, baby?”

One last time, Keith shakes his head. Looks into the eyes of the thing above him, empty and hungry, and knows nothing he says will sway him. 

Without a trace of remorse on his face, Not Shiro pushes in. He goes slow, which is somehow worse, easing him into it until he bottoms out—tears are gathering in Keith’s eyes again, the stretch of something big, almost too big, too much, filling him up. 

He’s never been filled up like this—he’s had four of Shiro’s fingers up his ass, but even that is nothing compared to this. Shiro is _big_ , never able to fit completely in Keith’s mouth, and by default, Not Shiro is fucking big, too, and the fucker knows it. 

“God,” Not Shiro moans, “I haven’t even moved yet and you take it so well. Am I filling you up, baby? You like being stuffed full?” 

All Keith can manage is some kind of choked off protest before Shiro is pulling out just as slowly. There’s a moment where he can breathe, and then the air is being pushed out of his body as Not Shiro thrusts in hard. 

Keith moans despite himself, a pathetic plea of a thing, and Not Shiro chuckles breathlessly. 

“Let it out, kitten,” he says, “I wanna hear how you sound getting fucked. I’m gonna be the very first.” and then he’s moving, pulling Keith’s legs apart to get a better angle—he’s so _big_ , so much broader than him, big hands moving him effortlessly. It’s something he’s always loved about Shiro—how easily he can lift him against a wall, how big his hands are, fingers laced together with his own—but now it’s something else. It’s terrifying, how small Keith feels, but it’s also. Unfairly arousing. Keith hates it, hates this fucker, hates himself. 

“I wish I had a camera,” Not Shiro is saying, his pace quick and unforgiving, no matter how much Keith pleas for him to slow down, “I wanna record this, save it for your precious Shiro to watch later, see what he missed out on. You look like a slut, all spread out like this, taking it like a pro. You’re so _pretty_ , baby.”

Keith keens—he almost sounds like Shiro, the way he coos that stupid fucking pet name, almost enough to make him forget. But there’s an edge of sadistic mockery to it that Keith can’t not hear. 

There are a few more brutal thrusts, and Not Shiro is coming, filling Keith up. He feels warmth running down his thighs and feels sick, even as his own hard cock drags against his stomach.

For a moment, Keith thinks it’s done. But then he flips Keith over, yanks his hips up so his ass is in the air, head buried in the mattress, and pushes back in.

He reaches deeper this way, dick splitting him open again in the best way, drilling into his prostate with each brutal thrust. Keith has given up on trying to stay quiet, letting out small, high sounds every time skin meets skin.

Not Shiro digs a hand into the hair as the base of his neck and pulls, forcing his back into an arch, and then Keith is coming despite himself, moaning and shaking and hating himself.

Not Shiro laughs low, head is dropped carelessly back onto the bed, and not Shiro doesn’t care. Not Shiro keeps going, fucks him through orgasm, through the oversensitivity afterwards, through Keith’s desperate pleas for him to _stop, it hurts, please wait, stop_ , fucks him until the fucker is coming again, practically growling, leaning forward and biting the crook of his neck hard. Keith cries out weakly. 

There are a few moments of panting, Not Shiro’s breath hot on his neck, Keith’s head buried in the sheets. Not Shiro pulls out, reaches down and wipes his fingers in the cum on Keith’s trembling thighs. Keith hears him lick, hears the pleased little sound he makes, and then he’s shoving his cum-slicked fingers into Keith’s pliant mouth, forcing him to taste himself. 

Keith swallows on reflex, and Not Shiro smiles cruelly against his shoulder. 

He drags his hands down Keith’s back, making him shiver, pauses like he’s contemplating something. 

He pulls his hips back up, knocks his trembling thighs apart with his knee, and thrusts back in. 

Not Shiro comes two more times, and so does Keith, shaking and moaning and panting with overstimulation. He can’t hold himself up by the end of it, slumping so much that Not Shiro flips him onto his back, throws a leg over his shoulder and keeps going. 

When it’s finally over, Keith is crying—from oversensitivity or from relief of it ending, he isn’t really sure, he just knows that his cheeks are wet and it feels like all the air in his lungs has been fucked out of him.

Not Shiro smirks down at him, a sweaty mess himself; everything smells like sweat and sex, “How was that for a first time?” 

Keith can’t find it in himself to move, let alone say anything biting or angry. Not Shiro smiles anyways, looks way too fucking proud of himself. He brushes a strand of hair out of Keith’s face, something so Shiro that Keith wants to tell him to fuck off, but all he does is shut his eyes.

“Well, kitten, it’s been fun,” is whispered against his neck, “but I think I went a little too far; Shiro seems pretty upset with me. I promise to make him even more upset next time.”

The body above him goes very still for a moment, and then there’s a big hand cupping his cheek. Keith’s pulse has slowed down enough for him to jerk away this time, but then he hears a soft “Keith—oh _god, Keith,_ ” and opens his eyes.

It’s Shiro. The real Shiro, his Shiro, staring down at him with all kinds of horror and _guilt_ on his face.

“Fuck,” Shiro says, grabbing the sheets to try and wipe him up somehow, like Keith can ever be washed clean, _“fuck_ , Keith, I’m— _god_ , I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am _so_ sorry, I’m—“

Keith is asleep, drifting into merciful oblivion, before he can finish his sentence. 

**Author's Note:**

> sorry keith


End file.
